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Nidintu looks down at Roots with a degree of admonishment. "You cannot rely on an imaginary bear to solve your problems for you, Roots. Only you can prevent forest fires!" As the excitable leshy babbles on about volcanoes, Nidintu furrows his brow. "Volcanoes? We have no volcanoes in these parts, my friend." He laughs. "You are one month old now, yes? I asked the same question to my caretaker when I was... about four hundred and eighty times your age, young one. The Tors have been quiet for all of recorded history. Other places have tales of such events - 'when Mhar Massif calls forth his challenge to the gods, and the skies grow dark with his rage,' say the people of the Kodars - but never here."
Nidintu raises his hands in conciliation at the hermit's confrontational attitude. "Be calm, friend! We're no bandits - not anymore, at least. We just saw the smoke from your fire and wanted to see if you were well. You might have needed tools or medicine, and I thought that it would be a kindness to see if we could bring you something from Restov. Besides, not all hermits in these lands live such a life by choice, and for those that do not, it can be difficult indeed." The massive warrior peers at the wrinkled man, trying to see if he recognizes him - or if the hermit recognizes the tiefling. He steps back, in case the man does indeed wish to continue his isolation.
"You're a month old? Did some faerie sing you to life, plant?" Orlund asks Roots with some incredulity. "Is that normal?" he opens the question up speaking to no one in particular.
Orlund looks at Nidintu-Bel when he says we're not bandits "anymore". He almost opens his mouth to say something but he refrains until the elf is done.
He calls to the unwashed man, "My very large friend speaks true. We mean you no harm. We are only on the road and seek news of these parts. Perhaps we can share your fire and our bread?"
Are brigands the only people who travel in these parts? That is a poor state of affairs indeed. There should be travelers brining you stories from far off places. Xavin says to the hermit and the group. I am sure even our plant friend would agree that some underbrush in these parts need clearing out so new shoots can grow and prosper.
Roots crosses his vine-like arms across his chest. The small Root leshy's expressive blue eyes travel slowly from Nidintu, Orlund and Xavin.
Erastil plucked my Spirit from the River of Souls months prior to making your acquaintance.
The Storm Druid just nods seriously at Xavin's statement about growth, death and regrowth.
It's the Natural way.
"You're a month old? Did some faerie sing you to life, plant? Is that normal?"
Nidintu laughs uproariously. "Normal? My friend, nothing about Roots-Sink-Deep is normal! In fact, if any of us were normal, would we wander through the wild lands like this? Normal people stay at home and learn trades; only the brave, the desperate, or the stupid live as we do!" He considers for a moment, rubbing his upper lip as he thinks. "Now that I think of it, though, I don't recall ever meeting another plant-child like you, Roots. Perhaps your kind live somewhere out here, but if so, I have no knowledge of them." He shrugs. "I suppose I'm not one to talk - elves are rare in these parts, and tieflings doubly so!"
The man narrows his eyes at Nidintu-Bel, pinning him with his scrutiny for several long moments before breaking the tension with a satisfied cackle.
"Not brigands? Then per'aps customers, ey? Looking to buy some tinctures, some potions, I 'ave very good potions, I do. Mix them meself." He opens the door wider, gesturing everyone inside. The space beyond the threshold is a combination of kitchen and alchemy lab, with a cauldron of stew bubbling over the fireplace, an alembic, and bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling. The split log table is a mess of alchemical equipment and dirty plates and bowls, vials scattered among old crusts of bread and apple cores.
"Now, whatcha need? I have curatives and tonics, elixirs to deal with poisons, just don't ask me for love philters, I don't do those. And what 'ave you got to trade, ey? Stories are nice, but they don't fill the stomach, they don't. But, if you like, we can trade stories and news if my wares don't please you."
Roots-Sink-Deep smiles, waves and rushes into the hermits domicile dancing around a cauldron of stew bubbling over the fireplace, and trying to leap to high-five the alembic, and bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling!
Erastil loves what you've done with the place!
The laughing leshy then turns his blue eyes to Nidintu.
Perhaps, I can explain properly how leshys are made. With stew!
Halrod regards this...interesting... person with some alarm, but is willing to wait and see how his potions work.
"I've little coin, good Master, but I'd be willing to trade it for a healing potion. But first, I would know the name of him I deal with. I am Halrod, and these are my several companions. This, our good bard Linzi, is still working on a name for us collectively."
Seeing the man stare blankly at him, Halrod tries a shorter tack. "What is your name, sir?"
"Me name's Bokken, good m- elf! Bokken, yes. And you 'ave coin? Wonderful, most wonderful!" The hermit skitters over to a small wooden box, flipping the lid open and rummaging inside. He removes several vials stoppered with cork, squinting at each one in the light and sniffing them. He replaces a couple in the box, and presents five of the vials to Halrod.
"There ya go, curatives of various potency which I brewed meself from local 'erbs and other floral and, er... 'erbal plants and such. All nat'ral, no magick tricks or artifice."
Linzi giggles as she takes in the interior of the hovel. "So rustic! Very charming house you have here, Bokken." Amiri is currently peering at a large animal skull that is serving as paperweight for a sheaf of scribbled notes, while Valerie looks like she's trying to not touch anything.
Turning back to the others, Bokken looks them up and down, taking in each person in the group. "And who might y'all be, ey? I can 'ardly remember when we've 'ad these many people tramping through this area. I won't ask yer business, I won't." Yet, his eyes gleam with curiosity.
We might end up being just another band of adventurers swallowed up by the Stolen Land for nature and fate are fickle. Xavin says. Should we be successful though then hopefully we might be the ones that stop brigands from bothering you and allow more people to come by your home to trade potions and news. What can you tell us of what's been happening here? Is it all brigands? What sort are they?
Eskra gives a slight nod to the old man, "Well good day to you, Bokken. I am Eskra, my companion is Carageorn."
They look around for where Carageorn might have gotten off to and see him posturing rather pompously at a nearby tree. Though they can't get exact thoughts, Eskra gets the sense that somehow it insulted his honor.
Nidintu laughs uproariously. "Normal? My friend, nothing about Roots-Sink-Deep is normal! In fact, if any of us were normal, would we wander through the wild lands like this? Normal people stay at home and learn trades; only the brave, the desperate, or the stupid live as we do!" He considers for a moment, rubbing his upper lip as he thinks. "Now that I think of it, though, I don't recall ever meeting another plant-child like you, Roots. Perhaps your kind live somewhere out here, but if so, I have no knowledge of them." He shrugs. "I suppose I'm not one to talk - elves are rare in these parts, and tieflings doubly so!"
The laughing leshy then turns his blue eyes to Nidintu.
Perhaps, I can explain properly how leshys are made. With stew!
"Perhaps yes..." Orlund says, smiling and nodding.
He makes a very placid diplomatic smile at the old hermit, noting his odor. He shouldn't be one to complain. But somehow, he thinks, this man is worse to be around than me.
Orlund says regarding the apothecary and everyone else, "Well I'm sure there's something useful we could find here." He examines the bottles one by one, idly as he speaks.
"I am called Orlund the Fair." he smiles hiding his teeth as best he can. "Bokken, we are venturing into the stolen lands. I wouldn't dare to speak for anyone else as to their motives. The question is, what are you doing out here? What causes Bokken to live bravely on the frontier, if I might be so bold as to ask?" Orlund makes sure to turn the question away from himself, but his own curiosity and desire to be heard make it hard for him to stay out of the conversation.
"Perhaps, I can explain properly how leshys are made. With stew!"
Nidintu is examining the alchemical equipment on the workbench, and he only partially hears the little leshy's words. "You want stew, Roots? Wait a minute and I'll make some - don't take the hermit's without asking!" He seems to be lost in thought, as if trying to remember something - he moves slightly to let Amiri get a better look at the morbid paperweight, and he twitches his tail out of the way so Orlund doesn't step on it, but he seems to pay little attention to the conversations going on around him.
"And who might y'all be, ey? I can 'ardly remember when we've 'ad these many people tramping through this area. I won't ask yer business, I won't."
The old hermit's words snap the massive tiefling out of his reverie. He looks towards Bokken and adjusts his spectacles. "Hmm? Oh, yes - I am called Nidintu-Bel." He glances around the other members of the group before continuing somewhat hesitantly. "I think we're the Wildwood Band, right? Did we ever decide, my friends?" The warrior shrugs. "I suppose it doesn't matter what we're called. We're here because they say there's some bandit gang in the area getting too bold - troubling the highborn up in Restov and such. Hopefully, we can knock some sense into them." He returns his gaze back to the crucible. "Plenty of good jobs for those quick with a blade or a bow. Shame to see those kids waste their potential, you know?"
The former bandit changes the subject, gesturing to the alchemical tools in front of him. "I once met a scholar from Zelshabbar who used such devices. He filled up his crucible with sand so it heated his vials evenly. More efficient, he said - stands to reason, too. I think he called it a qadr or some such. You could probably do the same with what you have here." He looks around the small workspace. "If you have an athanor, you can do the same with it, but I don't see one around here." His gaze comes to rest on the unwashed hermit. "Orlund has a good question - how did you come to live here? You one of those religious scholars or some such, or are you local?"
Bokken looks a little disappointed that no immediate purchases are being made, but then shifts his bustling to making tea for the guests. He picks up a large pot, somewhat dinged up, fills it with water from the rain barrel outside and hooks it over the fire. As he talks in rapid-fire cadence, he picks up tin cans of various shapes and sizes, looking inside them and sniffing as he searches for herbs and leaves appropriate for tea-making.
"En't got proper tea leaves, but 'ere's some linden flowers, chamomile, verveine... thought I 'ad some mint somewhere, I did. And don't ask me fer sugar, 'cos I don't 'ave any, I don't. This en't Restov." Bokken sniffs, pausing his bustling for a few moments.
"Aye, Restov. Used to live there, I did. With me ma, Desna rest 'er soul, and me brother, Kurmil, curse 'im to the nine hells." He spits on the dirt floor with some heat. "After our pa passed, 'e took to drinking and gambling and consorting with all sorts, 'e did. One night, 'e was arguing with our ma and the bastard 'it 'er." Bokken spits again, muttering a string of curses under his breath. "Ran 'im right out of the 'ouse, I did, and told 'im to never come back." The hermit holds up his right hand, on which the little finger is missing. "But 'e took a souvenir, 'e did."
The water begins to boil in the pot, and Bokken busies himself pouring it over the dried leaves into cups and mugs in various states of cleanliness. "After that, 'e took off to live in the wild down south. " He scratches the side of his nose, brow furrowed for a few moments as he reminisces. "I 'ad to stay with ma, take care of 'er. But after she passed, I came 'ere to find Kurmil. I thought of tracking 'im down and... don't rightly know. Getting revenge? Making sure 'e doesn't 'urt anyone else?" Bokken shrugs, sticking his left pinkie in his ear, then wiping it on his hide trousers. "Was too frightening in the Greenbelt though, it was. Too dangerous. So I settled 'ere instead, I did, to live the rest of me life in nature. Got me fill of people, I did."
There aren't enough cups and mugs for everyone, so Bokken uses a few bowls to make the rest of the tea, only settling once everyone has a steaming container of some sorts in front of them. "Well, drink up! 'S all nat'ral." He inclines his head to Xavin and Nidntu-Bel. "Bandits and brigands, ey. Always been some in the area, but lately they've gotten bolder. Stylin' themselves like lords, they are, asking for tribute and whatnot." Bokken spits again. "Got me making alco'ol for them, fermenting fruit and distilling it into booze. Come by every month to pick it up. They been bothering Oleg and Svetlana as well, I 'ear."
He lights up as Nidintu starts talking about alchemical equipment. "Ye know yer stuff! Sand, ey? I could get some from the river, but it's a bit far. Say, ye lot 'eading into the Greenbelt? If so, could ye get me some fresh fangberries? I use them for potions, I do, and I'm all out. There's some growing south and west of Oleg's, just watch out for the thorns, heh heh."
Nidintu listens attentively as Bokken talks, nodding in gratitude as the hermit hands him a semi-clean bowl filled with tea. At the mention of his cruel brother Kurmil, the massive warrior scowls. "Your brother's not on the path of Erastil, no sir. People shouldn't treat their parents in such a way!" He gets to his feet, about to start pacing - he's clearly upset by Bokken's report. "If we come across your brother, I'm going to have a long talk with him, I promise you that! If he doesn't see reason, I'll have to pound some - ah!" Unfortunately, the hermitage is not designed with his significant stature in mind - as he stands, his horns rebound off a crossbeam with a solid thud, and he sits back down, rubbing his head. "Thrice-tenth! It's probably best if I sit. What was I saying?" He winces. "Thrice-tenth, that stung!"
As the conversation turns to the bandits, Nidintu thinks for a moment. "Most of the bandits in these parts aren't that aggressive. The locals are too smart to try a stunt like that - brings down the wrath from the 'civilized' lands, sure as the sun rises in the east! Probably some spoiled noble's kid, thinks he can make himself some kind of bandit kingdom out here." He scowls. "We'll see how well he gives his little orders when I break his fingers, make no mistake!" Realizing himself, he glances at Orlund, chagrin on his face. "Sorry, friend - I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I don't mean you, of course."
At the mention of fangberries, Nidintu's face lights up. "Fangberries, you say? I used to love them when I was a kid. If we're in the area, we'll be sure to get you a basket or two."
What time of the month do these Lords of the Drink come by usually? Xavin says thoughtfully, sipping the herbal tea with grace from a chipped bowl. Perhaps we can prepare a royal welcome befitting such nobility?
Bokken's creased forehead creases further at Nidintu-Bel's promise. "Only don't thump 'im too 'ard, ey? 'E's still me brother. And if you come 'cross any fangberries, watch out for the thorns, ey?"
At Xavin's question, he scratches the other side of his nose. "They're due in a coupl'a days, I reckon. They pass by Oleg's first, though."
Roots turns his full mouth filled with stew away from Nidintu in a hurry!
Not certain whatcha mean....
I believe Oleg's is exactly where we are going. Fare thee well Bokken and if fortune favours, we will meet again, with plenty of fangberries for you and perhaps news of your brother.
"Ey? You going so soon? You 'aven't even bought anything! And where will you sleep tonight, ey?" Bokken slaps both his hands on his hips as if he has just successfully argued a particularly thorny point in a philosophical debate.
"I certainly hope not in here," murmurs Valerie, casting her gaze around the cramped interior of the dugout dwelling; it can barely fit all of them sitting or standing.
"Aww, I think it's charming!" pipes up Linzi. Amiri, on the other hand, shakes her head. "I'd rather sleep outside. This feels too much like one of my tri- like a cramped place. And it's smoky as all hells, too."
Once camp is made and sleeping arrangements sorted out, the fae pack spends a peaceful night on top of the small hill. The waxing crescent moon doesn't give a lot of illumination, and once the sun dips below the horizon it is dark as far as the eye can see, with no lights visible anywhere. The air is crisp, and the wind picks up halfway through the night, chilling those who chose to sleep outside. The dark masses of mountains to the south east, and of the vast forest to the south west are outlined against the starlit sky. This early in the year there are no crickets, so the night is eerily silent beyond the distant calls of some nocturnal birds.
The next morning, Bokken serves hot tea again, and once they've eaten breakfast and made their preparations the group sets out westwards again. After a lunch break, a lone structure becomes visible to the north west, no doubt the outpost they are looking for, set close to the South Rostland Road.
As the sun begins to set, the trading post comes into view properly, clearly a repurposed border fort judging by the 10-foot palisade and the four short towers that rise at each corner of the stockade, complete with run-down catapults. The single entrance is through a 30-foot wide wooden gate. Beyond the palisade, several buildings are visible - and a man currently hammering at the roof of the one closest to the gate.
Roots-Sink-Deep gladly spends the evening chatting to old Bokken about Erastil, wood lore and stew. The small leshy even decides to sleep inside, because the lonely Hermit never gets guests as fun as them!
Mr. Bokken. Have you ever heard of the River of Souls?
The Druid proceeds to explain to Bokken (and any elven ears listening) how leshys are brought into this world.
Leshy
.... Leshies are “born” when a skilled druid or other master of primal magic conducts a ritual to create a suitable vessel, and then a spirit chooses that vessel to be their temporary home. Leshies are self-sufficient from the moment the ritual ends, and so they do not depend upon these druids for care, though it is not uncommon for leshies to maintain lifelong bonds with their creators.
Roots grins.
Erastil was kind enough to awaken me about almost 3 months ago! I'm getting old....
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Nidintu looks around the cramped hermitage. "This place reminds me of where I grew up." He raises his eyebrows. "Not that I'm saying we should sleep in here! You have no idea how many times I hit my head when I was young."
He spreads his bedroll out on the hilltop, but he does join in the conversation between Bokken and Roots. "Did Erastil craft your body himself, then, Roots, or was it another? Perhaps this Marianne you told me about?"
The massive warrior gazes into the fire, lost in contemplation. After a moment, he speaks. "I certainly wasn't crafted from vines or some such - I had a mother and a father, just as Bokken or Orlund did. My mother's name was Kaiondieh, but I remember little of her - she left shortly after the birth of me and my twin brother. My father always said that she was an fool without true faith, but his condemnation is high praise, and I set little stock by his words. For all I know, she could have been a perfectly kind and decent person - I certainly hope so, but I may never know for sure."
Nidintu scowls and spits. "My father Andus, on the other hand, I knew all too well. He was a vile person - a worshiper of some dark horror from between the stars. He sacrificed people on his altar, you know - took the corpses and made Vanrith and me..." He breaks off, shuddering. "...such memories are painful, and best forgotten. In any case, I doubt you would have much appetite left if I told you. Suffice to say that Vanrith does not eat meat anymore. I think he wanted us to become the avatars of his loathsome god, much as your body was before it was you, Roots - empty husks waiting for a powerful spirit to make them its puppet."
After a moment, however, his mood brightens. "Fortunately, he died when I was very young, and the world is likely a safer place for it. I have few memories of him, as I spent most of my life in the care of a hermit who followed Erastil, much like yourself, Bokken." He looks around at the other members of the fae pack. "What of yourselves, my friends? Do you have any tales you remember? Heroes you met? Great deeds you witnessed?"
As Nidintu spots the trading post and the figure on its roof, he waves to get the man's attention and calls out to him. He urges his horse onward, trying to reach the safety of the old fortress's walls before night falls.
Roots beams when Marianne's name is mentioned.
She is my bestest friend! Marianne taught me everything I know!
He smiles.
The man on the roof turns, starts at the sight of eight strangers on his doorstep, then start to clamber down from the roof - a process made slow and laborious by how he seems to favour one of his legs. He looks like someone who spent a lot of his life working with his hands, with a tough, wiry build, weathered skin the colour of walnut wood, cropped sandy-brown hair starting to grow a little long, and mutton chops coming to the sides of his clean-shaven chin.
Meanwhile, a woman bursts out of another building, rushing through the gates to greet them. She stops short when she gets a better look at some of them, confusion clouding her features. She has ashen-blonde hair tied under a blue kerchief, ruddy skin, and brilliant, pale blue eyes. She begins to rub her hands on her apron nervously, looking from one stranger to another.
"From Restov?" Her gaze flickers from Roots-Sink-Deep to Nidintu-Bel to Carageorn. seeming slightly reassured by the sight of Halrod, Xavin, Eskra and Orlund. "A-are you sure?"
By this time, Oleg has finished climbing down from the roof and hurriedly limps towards the group, half a step in front of the woman in a protective stance.
"If you're with the Stag Lord, you're early," he growls, his brown eyes ablaze with hostility. His gaze measures each of the fae pack from head to toes, a tiny crease of confusion joining the scowl on his face.
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As Nidintu approaches the trading post, he dismounts his horse and leads it up to the gate. He looks over the walls as he approaches, nodding as he notices their sturdy construction. He addresses the other members of the fae pack. "This is an old building - some parts are at least thirty or forty years old, at least. In those days, they made things to last, I tell you!" As the two figures approach, he glances between them, unsure of what to make of the two.
"From Restov? A-are you sure?"
Nidintu furrows his brow. "We'd know which direction we came from, I'd think. I never visited there before, so I suppose I can't be sure. It's a big city with a lot of stone buildings, yes?"
He notices the woman's apprehensive glances at him and Roots, but misinterprets her concern. Smiling broadly (under the mistaken impression that seeing his mouthful of fangs will make her less frightened), he pats Roots on the back. "You need not fear - Roots here is a competent warrior. He killed a frost giant a couple of days ago, you know! I think it's some form of the battle-frenzy - when he gets upset and starts babbling about mints and imaginary bears, he is three feet of fury incarnate."
"If you're with the Stag Lord, you're early."
Nidintu laughs uproariously. "I was once a bandit, it's true, but I left that life behind a decade ago." The tiefling extends a massive hand to Oleg. "I am Nidintu-Bel, warden of Erastil, and my friends and I were sent to deal with the bandits that plague these lands. I'll pound some sense through their skulls, sure enough. If that fails, I'll pound this axe through their skulls, instead!" He laughs again. "You say their leader is known as the Stag Lord? Can you tell us any more?" He points back in the direction the fae pack has come from. "Bokken said that you were due for another visit by those thieves soon, yes? Perhaps we can help you prepare."
As he speaks, he thinks over the name "Stag Lord," trying to remember of any of the old bandit lords were known by that name.
Roots-Sink-Deep slowly descends from his high horse. The Root leshy not wanting the two frightened, fidgety folks to think him a Bandit. He slowly walks over to the couple. He slowly smiles up at them.
Hello, Mr. Oleg and not Mr. Oleg, we presume?
The small Root leshy then slowly offers a vine-like hand.
I am Roots-Sink-Deep. Hunter for Erastil. Slayer of Giant(s). We are here to eliminate your Bandit problems and to settle the Greenbelt.
You may call me Xavin Xavin nods at the two. I take it you are master and mistress of this building? I can see the constant effort it takes to maintain.
"We come from Restov, aye," agrees Halrod. "And we've a warrant to police the Greenbelt, ending banditry for good. That's what we mean to do."
"You and yours have nothing fear from any of us, Master Oleg. This I swear."
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"We'd know which direction we came from, I'd think. I never visited there before, so I suppose I can't be sure. It's a big city with a lot of stone buildings, yes?"
The woman laughs at that description. "That could suit all the cities I've ever been to." Her eyes widen as she hears that Roots-Sink-Deep is a giant slayer, and even further when Nidintu blithely admits to being a former bandit. However, something in his manner makes her smile rather than become alarmed.
"We are always happy to see the servants of the Green Father. I am Svetlana, and this is my grumpy husband, Oleg. Please, come in. There's stew and fresh bread for you, and a stable for your horses. We can talk more after you have eaten and rested, it must have been a long journey."
Oleg seems less keen to welcome all these strangers into his house, but does not gainsay his wife. His calloused hand grasps Nidintu's own in a brief handshake, and scowls fiercely as Roots mentions settling the Greenbelt. "It don't need no settlin'," he mutters as he takes the reins of several horses to lead them inside the palisade and towards the stable set to the left of the gate.
Behind the walls, the buildings that comprise the trading post are better visible. The open space in the middle has two sets of tables and benches, a stone-ringed fire burning between them and the promised pot of stew bubbling gently as it hangs over the banked flames from an iron tripod. To the left of the gate, a long stable with four stalls, where the horses are led to be brushed down, fed and watered. To the right there is another building, which Svetlana indicates with a nod of her head. "That's the guesthouse, you can sleep in there tonight. Not enough beds for all of you, but I'll give you some extra blankets, I'm sure you'll make do." Across from the gate there is a a fenced area with a wooden roof to keep off most of the rain and snow - some sort of open storage pen, currently empty. Behind that, the smell and buzzing of flies indicate the presence of three midden and compost pits. The main house is a squat, sturdy wooden building with a double door. It has several small windows, set with embroidered curtains that are likely Svetlana's handiwork.
Once everyone is seated on the benches, Svetlana brings a stack of bowls from the house in which she ladles generous portions of stew, and a couple of freshly baked loaves wrapped in a clean white cloth that she sets on the table. Wooden mugs, polished and carved with flower motifs, are handed out together with a large pitcher of water. She bustles in and out of the house serving the guests, while Oleg climbs back on the roof of the guesthouse to finish the roof repairs.
Linzi cannot get enough of the rustic aesthetic, walking around with her journal open to sketch whatever catches her eyes, even sticking her head into the house to get a glimpse of the interior. Valerie offers to help Svetlana set the table, but she is categorically shooed away, and then sits down with a slightly bemused expression. Amiri watches the cauldron of stew hungrily, sniffing in its direction every now and then; once the food is served, she pulls out a long knife that she uses to slice the bread loaves, then spear a few pieces on its tip to place in her bowl.
Bokken... Since we are going to Oleg's now and we have some carrying capacity... is it possible for us to take the spirits you brew for the bandits to Oleg's? As well as something to spike it with to make the drinkers drowsy? We play at being helpful travelers saving them a trip, get them drunk there and then we take care of them easy as we please.
"Ey? No no no no. If they come 'ere and I don't 'ave the goods, they'll be right mad. And who suffers then? Poor Bokken, 'e does."
Come now. With your alchemy and our arms, this will be a permanent solution to you.
Roots seems to be running inside for some reason all of a sudden!
Stew!
Hoping to avoid any tense run-ins with Oleg, Eskra works the ritual to send Carageorn to...wherever it is he goes when they dismiss him before they come into view of the trading post.
The fey warrior complains bitterly, but accedes to the request when Eskra phrases it as seeking to protect his honor.
They smile broadly upon meeting Oleg and Svetlana, "Lovely to meet you two. Your gifts of hospitality are deeply appreciated."
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After a few well-placed arguments, Bokken finally relents. "Fine, but only 'alf. And you have to come up with what you put in it yesself."
The hermit entrusts Xavin with two clay jugs, the smell of which would wither anyone's nose hairs, even through the waxed cloth stopper.
As the sun sets and it becomes too dark to work, Oleg joins everyone else at one of the long tables, accepting a bowl of stew and a heel of bread from his wife. As he eats, Svetlana talks.
"We sent word to Restov to ask for aid against these bandits, and we recently got word back that they're sending some guards. Beg your pardon, but you don't look like guards. Still, if you're here to help us, I'll tell you all we know." She reaches out to squeeze her husband's shoulder, who hunches over his meal without making eye contact with anyone.
"Three months ago is when they first came. A dozen of them, and among them a cloaked man with a bow and a woman who carried two hatchets - they seemed to be the leaders. They threatened to burn down this place if we didn't hand over all our furs and trade goods that we'd gathered from the local hunters and trappers, to sell in the city." Oleg tenses, crushing the heel of bread in his hand. "The woman did most of the talking. She was very frightening, nearly loped off one of Oleg's hands just for laughs."
Oleg grates out, almost in a growl, "She yanked your wedding ring off your finger and made off with it." Svetlana squeezes his shoulder again. "Hush, she could have done worse. I'm just happy we're both alive and whole." She continues her tale. "Since then, they've been here twice more, each time within an hour of sunrise on the last day of the month. We haven't seen the hatchet woman since that first time, only the man with the bow. They must think us cowed now, for the last time he visited he only had four others with him."
Stopping his slurping in mid-soup, stew, potatoes and beef(?), the Storm Druid's blue eyes begin to crackle with lightning as the story of these bandit's audacity (he heard Nidintu use it) fills his ears!
Pushing his (empty) bowl away, standing on his stool, and displaying a mighty rage (for a 3' vine creature), the leshy becomes a bit demonstrative!
The end is here for such lawlessness and predatory perpetrators pursuing the lowly and meek! Erastil has sent His Hunters to task!
Roots stares at each and every person gathered in the Trader's store/home/kitchen.
We have to work together to truly rid these lands of such. Everyone--small and large--has thier own part.
Roots then winks at the elf (using his right eye).
Nidintu glances around the trading post as he moves towards the long tables, his analytical eye assessing the strength of its fortifications. Upon sitting down, he casts an eager eye towards the stew pot, and he industriously eats what is set before him. "My thanks, Svetlana. This is far better fare than I've had in some time." He glances at Xavin. "Probably nothing like what you're used to in the courts of nobles and such, friend diplomat?" The warrior laughs. "So long as I cook for our expedition, you will have plenty of time to get used to it. I can do a lot with a little - give me some sausage, some cabbage, and some parsnip, and I will show you a feast! - but even if I had swans' teeth and unicorn eggs and such highborn food, I wouldn't know what to do with it!"
"We sent word to Restov to ask for aid against these bandits, and we recently got word back that they're sending some guards. Beg your pardon, but you don't look like guards. Still, if you're here to help us, I'll tell you all we know."
Nidintu raises an eyebrow. "I'll be the first to admit that we're no guards, but we may still be able to help. I'm sure that the others from Restov are just a few days behind us."
As Svetlana discusses the bandits, Nidintu's face darkens. "Such behavior is truly disgraceful. The people of the Stolen Lands should not have to bear such treatment. Taking what is needed to survive is one thing, but this..." He glances at Svetlana. "I will retrieve your wedding ring. If I find this woman with the hatchets, perhaps I will remove her hand. It would be fitting, and it would ensure she would not harm anyone again." His gaze strays upwards to the old watchtowers around the edge of the abandoned fort. "I know a thing or two about catapults. None of those look to be functioning, but I might be able to scavenge the parts to get one or two in working order. Perhaps we can give these bandits a welcome they are not soon to forget, yes?"
Roots's strange outburst gives him pause, and he looks at the little leshy quizzically. "Are you well, my friend? Is something in your eye?" He looks concerned. "My friend Erik lost an eye to the plague when he was very young. I would not want the same to happen to you, child." After a moment, the tiefling furrows his brow. "...Can leshies contract the plague? It wouldn't stand to reason - after all, we can't catch root-rot fungus!"
On the way from Bokken's to Oleg's, Xavin asks if anyone else in the group has any idea of what could be put into the alcohol to knock out anyone who drinks it.
Xavin snorts. If I had been sent to some place in Golarion then i would be able to tell you more of noble fare I am sure, The hospitality of the Fae is... different. Back here the food is much more... solid and hearty and that is more than satisfactory.
Halrod thanks Svetlana for the meal. "We are in your debt, Madame. Allow us now to repay that debt."
He stands and strings his bow. "I'm going to inspect the wall and defenses. I suggest the rest of you join me. Oleg, are their any weak points in your defenses we should worry about?"
Surveying the grounds, he says "Xavin, you take the left tower and I will take the right. Roots, Eskra, I think you should also be in the towers or on the wall, but I'll leave that decision to you. Orlund, Nidintu-Bel, Amiri and Valeri, you've got the gate."
"If they come, we will try talking to them first. I intend to offer amnesty and freedom to anyone who claims it and death to anyone who henceforth remains an outlaw."
"We should be able to hold them at the gate. If necessary, we will fall back into the Trading Post and fight from there. Xavin, your task and mine will be to target spellcasters if there are any, and then leaders. Linzi, stay out of the way of melee and support those at the gate if you can. Everyone else, do what you do best. Today is the day we begin to free the Stolen Lands from rape and pillage."
"Yeah! Show those bandits not to mess with Roots-the-Giant-Slayer!" Amiri pounds a fist on the table, making the bowls and mugs jump and rattle. She elbows Roots-Sink-Deep with a grin, almost flinging the leshy off the bench. "I like your spirit, little one!"
Svetlana smiles as she refills Nidintu's bowl. "I would be very grateful for the return of my ring, kind sir." Linzi stares off into the distance, one elbow propped up on the table and her chin in her hand. "This hatchet woman reminds me of the story of Amaranthe, the Bandit Queen. Well, stories, I think I read at least eight books about her exploits and the gang of misfits she gathered around her." She abruptly straightens up. "I mean, this hatchet woman sounds terrible and what she did was terrible and she should be punished!"
As Halrod calls for an inspection of the defenses, Oleg gets up and begins to walk with the elf. "Well, the walls and gates are pretty sturdy, but you can forget about them catapults. Don't think I haven't thought of that, tried to fix them up for the last three months, but they need parts I don't have and can't afford." He nods along as Halrod lays out the plan. "Sound. Svetlana, you hide in the house. I'll defend the gates. Mister, beg your pardon, but I would feel better if one of your companions would stay with my wife inside and protect her." At that, Amiri steps forward. "I'll stay with her, a few bandits are no challenge for me. I'm sure the rest of you will take care of them." Valerie nods as well. "You are an honourable and kind person, Halrod. I hope at least a few of them will see the wisdom of your offer, but if they do not, they will not get past me." She plants her shield into the dirt with a thud.
Svetlana adds, gathering up the empty bowls. "They usually arrive an hour after sunrise. I hope you have time to prepare before then. And... thank you. I cannot tell you how much it means to us to have strangers such as yourselves be ready to risk their lives to defend us. We are very grateful." She glances at Oleg, who relaxes his scowl a little and nods.
Roots looks at Nidintu with deep and sudden worry on his face.
Plague? Do you think it was that stew?
The Root leshy forgets any such distractions at Halrod's suggestion of his hiding in the tower.
I will be at the forefront of the coming conflict so as to better call Nature's Vengeance on these miscreants!
"Plague? Do you think it was that stew?"
Nidintu laughs. "No, my friend. Erik was born in Franax, in Iobaria, you see, during the 4650s - in that place, at that time, you had to be either blessed or lucky not to have caught the plague. Even when I knew him, he was still terrified of becoming ill. He made his own soap, you know, from oil and wood ash. Cleaned his hands every hour, on the hour, and before and after meals. Ironically, he died of tetanus, from a rusty spear head he took in the stomach during the Sack of Rossem." He sighs, the reminiscence having soured his mood. After a moment, he addresses Halrod and Xavin. "Tell me, my friends, how do you handle it? Watching wave after wave of your friends die before your eyes? Or were you raised among other elves in Kyonin or the like - never having had friends who died after less than a century?"
Nidintu grins and nods as Halrod reveals his plan. "Your idea is a good one, my friend. When you will it, this entrance will become as impassable as a rock face. Then, no bandit will pass this gate, I promise you that!" He draws his new axe and points it menacingly at an imaginary enemy approaching the gates. As Oleg mentions that the catapults are inoperable, he glances at the old sentry towers. "A shame, but will the brigands know that, I wonder? You clearly have reinforcements, and who among the brigands will know that we did not bring replacement parts with us? Sometimes, the appearance of an advantage can be as valuable as the advantage itself."
He gestures towards the doors with his axe. "For that matter, that gate can stop passage out as well as in. If we do not leave 'weak points' we know of, our foes will find their own. Rather, if I hide and appear once the bandits are inside, we could have the appearance of a weak point that in fact is a strong point we control." The massive warrior laughs. "I know I do not look it, but I can be stealthy when I wish to be! We could lure the bandits into the courtyard, fire on them from all four watch towers, and close the gates to prevent their escape. Such a gambit might make them more receptive to surrender, and either way, they will be less likely to escape and tell this 'Stag Lord' of us."
The towering pitborn seems to think for a minute before speaking. "If the bandits don't surrender, could we still try to take them alive? Hit them with the flat of the axe and the like? They're not monsters - they're people, just like us, and most of them are probably just stupid kids who've been led astray. Many might have never known any other life. I think we should give them another chance, even if they don't surrender."
Nidintu is taken aback at the little leshy's suggestion, and his yellow eyes widen behind his spectacles. "Roots, that is... probably the worst possible thing you could do. We need someone up in the towers, or at the very least along the wall, and I don't think I've ever seen you fight up close, so there's no real reason for you to be in the thick of it." He thinks for a moment, then rephrases his request. "Besides which, how can you possibly deliver the vengeance of Erastil to those thieves if you can't see them? They are likely to have horses, and you are a very short leshy - all you'd see down here is legs and hooves, you know. Better to be up on the walls, where you can see."
My gambit with the spirits may not be necessary if only a handful come around. I will gladly be on one of the towers and fire upon them with you Halrod. When they 'breach' the gates we will have surprises galore for them. Mayhaps we can rig the gate to collapse on them instead? Fix it afterwards of course...
Oleg listens to the planning, frowning in thought. "If we want to lure them in, then you all need to hide somewhere, and Svetlana and me need to be in the courtyard to greet them." He glances at his wife with concern. "If even one of us is missing, they'll be suspicious." Xavin's suggestion that they might try to collapse the gates on the bandits is met with a vigorous shake of the head. "Aye, and how many gates have you fixed, master elf? What if it can't be fixed? Then we're sitting here exposed."
Roots wears a serious expression on his leshy face. He seems to be considering Nidintu's idea. The Druid then smiles and laughs with joy!
I will be on the walls, so I can run around laughing and calling down lightning on those dirty bandits!
Roots nods in agreement to the Ambush idea too.
Nidintu raises his eyebrows at Xavin's plan. "Putting the gate back on is the easy part, friend elf, compared to the problem of getting it to fall in the first place. Gates aren't supposed to fall down - that's the entire idea of a gate, after all! To do what you describe, I'd have to make trick hinges and re-balance the doors, and that would take time and special tools - neither of which we have." He turns to Oleg and Svetlana. "I don't think you should have to risk your lives like that. We're supposed to protect you, after all, not get you killed! I think we should lead by putting some arrows through their horses or some such, not trying to make them think everything's normal - all I'm suggesting is that we might draw attention to a so-called 'weak point' in our plans, let the brigands get into their fool heads that charging the gates would be a good idea." He grins. "Then we make them regret their life choices!"
Once preparations are made, everyone retires to sleep - as much as they are able. Svetlana provides everyone with woolen blankets, clean if a little scratchy. An hour before sunrise, she has the tea kettle on and a light breakfast of flatbread, cheese and pickles ready for those early risers.
About an hour after sunrise, four brigands approach from the south on horseback, lead by a man wearing a patchwork cloak. They all have shortbows, daggers sheathed at their hip, and wear leathers for protection.